


giving it my best shot, baby

by surgicalstainless



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Characters, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Polyamory, Poor Clueless Steve, Sam Wilson Is Better Than You, Sort of a Slow Build, Way More Collegiate Athletics Than I Was Expecting, protect bucky barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:23:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surgicalstainless/pseuds/surgicalstainless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tall, dark, handsome stranger walks into a coffee shop...</p><p>In which Bucky is an outrageous flirt, Sam is the coolest, and Steve is a little slow on the uptake.</p><p>There's also a lot of coffee, some rifle shooting, a little bit of kissing, and a football game. But not in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i watched, i let it burn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamjacksblindrage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamjacksblindrage/gifts).



> Boundless thanks to [hollyhawke](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyhawke/pseuds/hollyhawke) for her beta-reading, great patience, and enthusiastic cheerleading.
> 
> Written for tumblr user [iamjacksblindrage](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iamjacksblindrage) for the Marvel Rare Pair Exchange. Hope you like it!

It was the kind of crisp winter day that made you want to snuggle up with a warm body and a hot drink, and that was exactly what Steve planned to do.

Door bells chimed a welcome as he stepped into Tall, Dark, and Roasted, and Steve took his customary moment to just breathe. The shop's familiar aroma of coffee and slightly burned sugar never got old. It said _home_ , just like Sam's voice did, the smile in it audible as he handed over some customer's order. Steve opened his eyes and looked to the counter with a smile of his own all ready.

But the customer leaning against the counter wasn't smiling. The customer's lips were curling, all right, but his expression came much closer to a leer. Dark blue eyes traced over Sam like a look could be a tactile thing. Long, black lashes dipped. A pointed pink tongue slipped out to lick whipped cream off a full lower lip. The customer was _appreciative_ , and not just of his coffee.

Steve watched this stranger watch Sam, watched Sam's throat swallow compulsively as the customer turned to go. That dark blue gaze lingered over one black-clad shoulder, and Sam stood as if frozen. 

Unseen, from the doorway, Steve felt his stomach lurch. 

Still, he couldn't seem to stop himself from watching the stranger walk away.


	2. all i need's a hand

When the stranger was safely hidden by an over-large wingback chair in the corner, Steve shook himself and made his way behind the counter. He slipped an arm around Sam's waist in greeting, and the smile Sam gave in return was just as warm and welcome as it ever was. Steve lingered for a moment, then pulled away with a parting squeeze to make himself a peppermint mocha.

"Busy shift?"

"Not too bad. How was studio?"

"Oh, it went okay. We were doing quick sketches. It's good practice, but kind of frustrating. I'd rather take my time, pay attention to detail."

Sam grinned up at him, slow and sultry. "Ask me how I knew that."

Steve held onto his dignity, despite the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks. "I have to run, though. See you tonight?"

"You only want me for my coffee." Sam gave his best mock-pout, but also handed over a to-go lid from the stack by the register.

"Now, Wilson, you know that isn't true. I make better coffee than you any day." No one was looking, so Steve pulled Sam in by his apron and silenced his squawk of indignation with a quick kiss. And then another, slower one, just because he could. He'd already forgotten about the too-appreciative stranger as he rounded the counter and headed for the door.

The bells chimed over him as Steve stepped onto the wintry sidewalk, mocha in hand and Sam's gaze on his back. He felt warmer already.

———

Sam ducked out the back door, bag of trash in hand, and almost tripped over somebody on the way to the dumpster. 

"Sorry, sorry, didn't see you there —" The apology was reflex, half out of his mouth before Sam had time to process who it was he'd just about stepped on.

It was the hot guy from a few hours ago, Mr. Salted Caramel Latte with Extra Whip, the guy who had made him feel stripped bare and shivering with just a single heated glance. 

He didn't look so hot now, though. In fact, he was _actually_ shivering, hunched down against the bricks in the small space between the door and the dumpsters. His head hung low, long hair loose and falling to hide his face. One hand clenched and unclenched as if reaching for something that wasn't there. Sam realized with a start that the hand was _metal_ — built of shiny interlocking plates rather than bone and skin. The rest of Sam's apology died on his tongue.

There was a moment, a long one, before the guy looked up. The cold had made him sluggish, maybe, or perhaps his thoughts had been far away. Certainly there was nothing flirtatious in the gaze that met Sam's this time. Sam might almost have said there was nothing there at all.

Moving carefully, Sam set the bag in the dumpster and glanced through the open door back into the shop. They were in that lull between the midday and evening rushes, and everyone inside was comfortably ensconced behind a textbook or laptop. He had a few moments; he'd hear the bell if anyone new came in. He crouched down in the wash of warmth from the doorway, a few respectful feet from Salted Caramel Latte's worn boots.

"Hey, man. You all right?"

It took a couple of beats for the guy to focus on him. A couple more before recognition kicked in. He brought his head up with a shake to clear the worst of the hair from his eyes, and offered Sam a sickly ghost of that flirtatious smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just needed —" Blue eyes shuttered in a long blink. "Needed to get away for a minute."

Sam tried a friendly grin. "It's a bit cold out here for meditation, man."

Salted Caramel Latte gave a bark of humorless laughter. "Yeah, tell me about it. I hate the cold. Makes my arm ache, makes..." Whatever he'd meant to say was cut off behind a concealing fall of hair. "It's just a bit too... _human_ in there for me right now." 

He cocked his head toward the still-open door. Inside, Sam could hear the familiar clink of spoon against cup, the rustle of pages turning and keyboards tapping, the weirdly poppy music that always seemed to be on the stereo. He'd always thought of it as a comforting background hum, an "all is right with the world" kind of sound, but he could see how the noises would be subtle torture against the wrong kind of mood.

Sam nodded his understanding and settled slightly on his haunches. He was glad, at least, that the cold had dampened the smell from the dumpsters some. He had a feeling this conversation shouldn't be rushed.

"That's a pretty badass hand you got there. War wound?"

The guy flexed his left hand once more. Sam thought he could hear a faint whirring as the plates moved over one another. They gleamed, mesmerizing in the fading winter light.

"Might as well be." The guy's lips twisted bitterly. "Accident. All the horror, none of the hazard pay. And the arm is fucking _freezing_."

Sam eased himself to his feet, and winced as blood rushed back into his chilled legs. He held out a hand.

"I got a quiet place you can sit, if you're tired of this alley. It's a little warmer, and it smells a lot better."

Salted Caramel Latte stared at Sam's had for several seconds before he reached out with his own. The guy's right hand was cool and callused, and his grip felt weirdly intimate — two strangers holding hands in a back alley. Sam hauled him to his feet, and felt fingers brush his wrist as the guy moved away. Sam led him through the door and down a side corridor to a second one, painted green and marked "Employees Only."

"It's just storage. You can stay as long as you want; you won't be disturbed."

He pushed the door open and flicked on the light. The room inside was basically a bare concrete cell, except it was stacked nearly floor to ceiling with bulging hessian sacks. Each was printed with a colorful logo, and most were labeled in Spanish and English. The air was cool but not cold, and noise from the shop filtered only faintly. The room was utterly still.

The guy hesitated in the hallway. His eyes flicked over the piled sacks, the bare lightbulb, the single small window set high into the wall opposite the lone door. He sniffed the air, looking puzzled.

"Coffee beans?"

Sam smiled. "Yeah. The boss roasts his own, so this is where we store the shipments. They're green, so they don't smell like coffee yet. The sacks are actually pretty comfy, if you don't mind scratchy hessian."

The guy smiled back, and it was like he'd come back to life. Sam blinked at the warmth of it.

"You sure? That would be great."

"Yeah, man, no problem. My sister's a veteran, she spends a lot of time in quiet spaces like this. She says — she says everybody comes by their trauma honestly, and that there's no shame in taking care of yourself." He coughed, suddenly embarrassed. "Anyway."

The guy sidled past Sam and sat experimentally on a convenient sack. "Your sister sounds like a smart lady."

Sam didn't try to hide his affection. "Yeah, she's pretty awesome. So, you want another latte or something, get warmed back up?"

The guy reclined against his coffee-bean furniture, and Sam could see him start to relax. He smiled at Sam again, this time just a little flirtatious.

"Yes, I do."

Sam backed out of the doorway, pulling the door closed as he went. "I'm Sam, by the way."

"Bucky." He gestured minutely at the sacks. "Thanks."

"Any time, Bucky." Sam made his escape. The shop was still blessedly calm, so Sam could make that second salted caramel latte in peace. And — "what the hell," he muttered to himself, and wrote his phone number on the cup. _In case you ever want to talk_.

———

It wasn't until hours later, coffee shop closed up and on his way to Steve's, that Sam thought to check his phone. One unread message, it insisted.

 **unknown number:** _thanks again. B._

Sam saved the number to his contacts, then stood for a long time with his fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

**Sam Wilson:** _No problem. Feeling more human now?_

The reply didn't come until Sam was climbing the stairs to Steve's apartment. Warm yellow light glowed in his kitchen window, and Sam could hear something old-fashioned and jazzy on the stereo. Steve was cooking; whatever it was smelled good.

 **Bucky:** _you warmed me right up ;)_

Sam switched off his phone, and raised a fist to knock.


	3. be still my heart

Steve was covering a shift for Sam when the stranger came in again. They were slammed, middle of the lunch rush, so Maria was working the register while Steve made drinks as fast as he could manage. He was elbow-deep in milk froth and coffee grounds, but he snapped to attention when someone said Sam's name.

"...not working today?"

Maria gave the customer the sidelong look that said she didn't know them, and was only being polite because the boss insisted. Loudly, and at length. There had been incidents.

"He had an extra practice because of the game tomorrow."

The customer cocked his head, almost, Steve thought, like he was preparing to be disappointed.

"Sam's on the football team?"

Maria snorted despite herself, and then made up for it by practically throwing the guy's change at him.

"Nope. He's a cheerleader."

The guy looked _thrilled_. He gathered up his fallen change and offered Maria a smile that was every bit as brilliant as the one he'd given Sam the week before, if slightly less salacious.

"That is amazing, it really is."

He looked as if he wanted to stay and ask more questions, but there was a line growing behind him. Maria pointed to the other end of the counter.

"You can wait for your beverage there. Sir."

That was Steve's cue. The drinks weren't going to make themselves. He set the finished drinks out in batches — hot tea, no-whip mocha, triple-shot Americano, hot chocolate. There was always a rank of empty cups waiting, no matter how fast he went. Steve squinted at the instructions on the side of the newest cup. Maria wrote in clear block script most of the time, but when she got stressed the letters all started to look like one another. That said "salted caramel latte," he was pretty sure. Or "softened camel latte," but that wasn't a flavor they carried. He poured the drink, added the requested extra whip, then carried it to the counter to double-check.

"Salted caramel latte with extra whip for... Bucky?"

What the hell kind of a name was Bucky?

He should have guessed, of course. Steve felt a heavy kind of inevitability as he watch the stranger turn, almost in slow motion. He wore a bulky navy coat over black skinny jeans and battered boots, and he moved with unexpected grace. His long, dark hair flared away from his face as he pivoted on a heel —

"That's me."

Something about the way he walked, something in the guy's face, now that he wasn't leering at Sam. Take away the long hair, the stubble, take off ten years or so...

"Short for Buchanan, right?"

The guy hesitated with his hand halfway to his coffee cup. He wore a leather glove, Steve noted distantly.

"What kind of jerk answers to _Bucky_?"

The guy's mouth had fallen open, and he'd gone completely still. From the other end of the counter, Maria stared at him in frank astonishment. Steve resigned himself to the fact that he was about to be punched.

" _Steve_?"

For a second, Bucky looked like he was going to launch himself over the counter for a hug. Then he recognized the cluster of scalding hot beverages between them, and settled for clapping Steve on the shoulder. Hard. He was hiding a lot of muscle under that coat, apparently.

"What happened to you, punk? I thought you were smaller."

He cast a look up and down Steve's admittedly tall and well-muscled frame. It was admiring, to be sure, but there was no heat to it.

"I grew, Buck. It's been, what, eight years? That kind of thing does happen. And what about y—"

" _Rogers_!" From the tone of Maria's voice, it wasn't the first time she'd said his name.

"Oh. Right. Well, here's your latte. That is what you ordered, right? Sometimes Maria's handwriting is..." He waved a hand vaguely as, in the background, Maria slammed the register drawer with unnecessary force.

Bucky took a sip. His eyes over the coffee cup were warm, still smiling, and it lit up a place in Steve he hadn't known was dark. 

"It's perfect."

"Good! Great! Well, I'll, uh, talk to you later? When it's less busy? I gotta get back to work."

Bucky backed a couple of steps and saluted with his coffee cup before heading for the big wingback chair in the corner.

"Smooth, Rogers," Steve muttered to himself, and turned back to the espresso machine.

———

More than an hour passed before Steve could take a minute to flop down in the chair opposite Bucky's. It felt good to get off his feet.

Bucky looked up from his textbook. "That lady going to yell at you again for sitting down?"

"Who, Maria? Nah, everything's clean and stocked. She won't mind."

"She seems kinda mean."

Steve chuckled. "Coffee shop manager is not her calling, let's just say. She'll make a hell of an officer in the Marine Corps in a few years, though."

Bucky cast his eye toward the bakery case, where Maria was arranging cinnamon twists in very neat rows.

"Yeah, I can see that." He marked his place with a pencil, then put the book aside with a smile. "So, what have you been up to all these years? Trouble, I'll bet."

"I should be asking you. I just stayed in the same old neighborhood. _You're_ the one that moved away, after all. The nuns at school said there was some kind of accident...? I asked, but nobody had any kind of forwarding address."

Bucky's smile slipped, then recovered, if just a shade less bright.

"'Accident.' You could say that. I spent a long time in a couple different hospitals. There was some experimental... stuff. Took me a while to level out."

Steve gaped, horrified. Bucky's voice was flat, as if he were reading from the Cliff's Notes of a much longer, darker story. _Don't ask_ , Steve heard, between the bullet points.

Before the silence could fill with too many ghosts, Bucky quirked up one side of his mouth and wiggled the fingers of his left hand out in front of him. They flashed and gleamed in the light.

"Bucky, is that — you have a _metal arm_?"

"Pretty sweet, right? Brings all the boys and girls to the yard. Well, except in winter, when it's just fucking cold." He stared up at Steve from under his lashes for a moment, as if braced for something. "...You going to the game tomorrow?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"Pretty excited to see Sam cheer." Bucky leaned back in his chair, as if imagining it. "You know Sam?"

"Yeah, I know Sam." _He's my boyfriend_ , Steve thought, but did not say. He wasn't sure what made him hold his tongue.

"We'll be in the student section. Maybe we'll see you?" 

At Steve's inquiring look, Bucky waved a hand toward the chair next to him, which was occupied by a laptop, three notepads and several piles of textbooks. Barely visible behind them was a close-cropped head of blond hair. "Clint, my roommate."

Clint grunted, but didn't look up.

Ah. "I'm sure you'll see me," Steve began, just as the door bells chimed over what looked like an entire busload of sorority sisters. He stood up, reluctant, and stretched some of the kinks out of his spine. Bucky's gaze followed the movement, Steve noticed with satisfaction. "I gotta get this."

Bucky merely nodded, distracted.

The flow of customers didn't let up again, and Steve worked steadily behind the espresso machine for the next few hours. Bucky and his friend must have left sometime, but Steve missed them in the dance of coffee cups and the scream of the steamer. He hardly had time to think, in fact, until Maria presented him with his share of the tip jar at the end of the shift. It was a nice stack of bills, plus a scrap of notebook paper.

Maria gave him a half-smile. "Good work today."

"Thanks." He wasn't used to the lunch rush; his normal evening shift was a lot more low-key. Still, it felt good to have worked hard. He shoved the bills into a back pocket and held onto the scrap of paper, rubbed it between his fingers thoughtfully.

He didn't read it until he was out on the sidewalk and the cold air had cleared his head some. The note was written in Sharpie, the scrawl still familiar despite all the intervening years:

_It was good to see you again, punk._

There was a phone number.

Steve ran his fingers over the words. They didn't feel special, or even any different from the paper they were written on. And yet...

He re-folded the note and tucked it carefully into his wallet. Sam would be done with practice soon. Steve turned into the wind and headed for home.


	4. there's a spark in you

For Steve, game days always passed in kind of a blur. His role meant he had to be suited up hours in advance of kickoff, out among the fans. He moved from tailgating party to pep rally to pregame parade, and the time passed in a kaleidoscope of sound and color and happy, cold-pinched faces. 

He joined the marching band for their bombastic approach to the stadium, and waved to kids and stood for photos whenever anyone asked. There were a few brief moments of calm in the dark of the tunnel, when he could collect himself, and then the band rolled off into the opening strains of the fight song...

Showtime.

Steve squared his shoulders, pulled the helmet low over his eyes, and took one last deep breath. He aimed himself down the tunnel, broke into a steady jog, and concentrated on that cadence as he emerged blindly into brilliant stadium lighting and ten thousand camera flashes. Over the band, the announcer exhorted the crowd to ever-louder cheers.

"Patriots fans, let's hear it for our very own star-spangled man! Here comes Captain America!"

Sound buffeted at him from every side. The dance team gyrated and shook. Down in the endzone, cheerleaders tumbled and flipped. The band high-stepped into their next formation, a series of concentric spinning circles with a star in their center. Waving to the crowd, Steve kept up his steady jog until he reached the star, then struck a commanding pose, strutting up and down through the chorus of "Star Spangled Man With a Plan." Red, white and blue flags spun, dizzying, at the corners of his vision.

When the band began its decrescendo into the verse, the announcer resumed his script, declaring that the Patriots would certainly give their opposition a staunch fight. Steve did his best to look determined, waiting for his cue to spin around and —

_Pow!_

Oh, no! The opposing mascot (or some poor athletic assistant dressed in a crude mockup) had somehow snuck onto the field! It skulked its way past the flags and infiltrated the high-stepping lines, but right at the last moment Captain America turned on his heel and socked the guy right on his foam jaw.

The crowd _loved_ it. 

This week the opponent was a giant cartoon beaver. It reeled, and then crashed to the ground in a grand pratfall. As the fans roared their approval, two burly tuba players dragged the "unconscious" creature off. Steve gave the cheering masses one last wave and jogged over to the sidelines. Behind him, the band moved into formation for the national anthem. 

This week, it was the Marines' turn to provide the ROTC color guard. Steve snapped off a sharp salute as the cadets went through their ceremony. They were a polished group, their movements correct and solemn, but Steve swore he could see Maria give him a flicker of a wink as they marched on by. She'd taught him that salute, after all. 

Once the game had begun, Steve's job was mostly just to be visible. He moved slowly through the sections, high-fiving students, shaking hands with parents and giving hugs to the kids. It was cold out, and the team wasn't winning, but everyone seemed to be in good cheer. He was in the midst of a flexing contest with a ring of middle-school-age boys when his handler put a hand to her headset, listening.

"Captain, you're needed on the track down by the student section."

Steve smiled at the boys. "Sorry, fellow Patriots. Duty calls."

His handler nudged him with an elbow as they made their way down the stairs. "You doing all right? Need a break?"

Peggy was perfectly put-together, unapologetically British, and scarily efficient. Armed only with a radio headset and a clipboard, it was her job to follow Steve around on game days and keep him on schedule and out of trouble. He'd seen her use the clipboard, once. It was metal, the kind with a storage tray for papers, and it had solid, pointy corners. Steve, for his part, was incredibly grateful she was on his side.

He smiled down at her. "I'm okay. Wouldn't say no to a hot drink, though."

"You go visit the cheerleaders, I'll see what I can do."

The cheerleaders wanted Captain America for one of their collaborative routines. Steve helped them lead the student section through a few chants, and then joined in for a series of lifts and tosses. In the stands, students hooted and whistled their appreciation. The routine ended in a completely ridiculous human pyramid with Steve at its top, balancing two female cheerleaders on his shoulders in a strongman pose.

It was a tricky formation to get into, and even trickier to get out of gracefully. By the time Steve stepped back onto the turf, the smiles of the foundation men were closer to grimaces. Sam pulled a face as he shook feeling back into his legs.

"You know, you're a lot heavier than you look."

Steve grinned, showing a lot of teeth, and offered him an overly elaborate salute. 

Sam opened his mouth to retort but was saved by the football team, which had evidently done something impressive. The band rolled off into the school fight song, and Sam went to rejoin his squad. With a back handspring.

Steve was sure that was sass. First downs weren't _that_ exciting. 

With the fight song ended, Steve was about to duck into a tunnel in search of Peggy when his attention was caught by a yell from the stands.

"Woo! Yeah! Get it, _Sam_! Shake it, Sam, shake it!"

Sam was, indeed, busy shaking it, so Steve stepped back onto the track to scan the crowd. The yelling wasn't difficult to locate: a small group of students, close to the front, were jumping up and down. There was a dark-haired young woman wearing about five scarves, a blond guy in a violently purple puffy jacket... And a guy with long, dark hair and a lascivious smirk visible at any distance.

Well, Bucky had said he was going to the game.

Steve followed their line of sight. Sam was grinning broadly and holding a petite blonde cheerleader over his head with one hand. As Steve watched, he tossed her lightly into the air, so that she straightened into a twist and landed safe in his arms.

Sam had very nice arms.

For a moment, lost in appreciation, Steve forgot he was standing in the middle of the track ogling his boyfriend in full patriotic uniform. The next yell brought him back.

"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America!"

That was something everyone could get behind, and in the ensuing tumult Steve tossed Bucky a jaunty salute. Bucky looked happy, his face reddened by cold and perhaps a little by alcohol. His voice sounded rough from yelling, and the smile was genuine, but there was no recognition when Steve met his eyes. 

He went to find Peggy.

———

Peggy had tucked Steve into a forgotten corner under the stands, and was keeping guard while he warmed up a little. It was blessedly quiet — the roar of the crowds was muffled by tons of cold concrete, and nobody walked back here. Every few minutes there would be a wash of noise and light as a distant men's room door opened and swung closed, but this immediate space, for the time being, was Steve's own. He lowered his face to the steaming cup of sweet tea (always tea. It didn't matter what kind of drink you asked Peggy to bring, you always got tea) and let himself relax.

All too soon, the sound of bootsteps drawing closer threatened his moment of peace. Peggy moved out to intercept, but she was too late.

"Oops, sorry, this isn't the way back to my seat — oh, hey, Cap!"

Steve raised his head. Of course.

"Bucky."

Bucky goggled. Peggy, standing in the middle of the hallway, goggled. Steve sipped his tea.

"You, uh...?" Bucky flapped his hand vaguely in Steve's direction.

Steve glanced down. It really wasn't surprising Bucky hadn't recognized him. He was wearing tight blue pants and bright red boots and gauntlets. His torso was wrapped in red and white vertical stripes, and the rest of his jacket was the same blue as his pants. The chest and shoulders were lightly padded (only _lightly_ , thank you, the rest was all him), and a bright white star shone right in the middle of it all. The costume was completed by a blue helmet that covered his ears and the top half of his face, and had stupid painted-on wings on the sides. 

Nobody would look at that get-up and think "Steven Grant Rogers, sophomore art major." Nobody ever did.

Right now, though, Steve's helmet was clipped to his belt, and his hair was rucked up into sweaty blonde spikes. He leaned against the cold concrete wall and watched over the rim of his cup as Bucky did a triple-take that turned into a careful reappraisal. 

"Yep."

Peggy shifted from foot to foot, watching them both. It was her job to protect Captain America's "secret identity." She didn't like it when Steve's helmet came off; he was too vulnerable.

Bucky found his words again. "You weren't kidding when you said you grew. How the hell did you get roped into _this_?"

Steve cocked a head at Peggy. "Ex-girlfriend. She's very determined."

Peggy took that as her cue. She stepped forward, right hand extended, clipboard not-so-subtly at the ready. "Margaret Carter. And you are...?"

Her words positively dripped with aristocratic British disdain. Steve was surprised his tea didn't freeze over.

Bucky, for his part, shook her hand with a warm smile, lowered eyelashes, and all the charm in his possession. "James Buchanan Barnes, ma'am. It's a pleasure. Steve and I were best friends when we were kids."

"He came into the coffee shop yesterday, Peg. We hadn't seen each other in years, and then..."

Her expression softened.

"It's almost the end of the quarter, Steve." She turned to Bucky. "It was very nice to meet you, James, but we have to get back."

One side of Bucky's mouth quirked up. "Duty calls?"

"Something like that." Steve tossed back the last of his tea and pulled his helmet down snug. "Say, Buck, a bunch of us usually get together at the coffee shop after the game. You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

If Bucky said something in answer, Steve didn't catch it. Above them, the band had struck up again, and Peggy was already heading down the tunnel toward the field. He glanced back over his shoulder, but the lights were nearly blinding. Bucky was nothing but a silhouette, one hand raised, as Steve strode back into the breach.


	5. there's nothing sure

The warm, coffee-scented air of Tall, Dark, and Roasted felt _great_ after so many hours outside. If it were possible to snuggle up to a coffee shop, Sam thought, he would do so. The atmosphere here had a density to it, a soft and comfortable texture, as if you could pull it around yourself like one of those embarrassing blanket-things with sleeves.

Uh. Sam's mind was never really at full speed after a football game.

He shrugged off his coat, nodded to the new kid behind the counter, and went to join the others. The usual group was there, in their usual corner, the most comfortable chairs dragged over and guarded jealously by strategically deployed coats (Steve and Peggy) and laser-eyed death glares (Maria). Steve, good man, had the loveseat.

Steve was, in fact, slumped down in the center of the loveseat with a large coffee cup in one hand and an even larger apple-cinnamon scone in the other. His head was thrown back against the cushions and his eyes were closed. Possibly he was asleep.

Sam stepped carefully over Steve's outstretched legs and plucked at the scone. Nothing happened, except that Steve's fingers tightened slightly around the pastry and a few crumbs fell.

"Get your own, Wilson," Steve grumbled, without opening his eyes.

Damn.

When Sam returned, fortified with a latte and a scone of his very own, their group had grown. Natasha, the morning shift manager, was curled up next to Maria on the couch. She wore jeans that looked painted on, and red hair fell in a sleek curtain to her shoulders. Natasha was graceful as a cat and utterly terrifying; Sam's palms got sweaty whenever he was near her. He never could decide if that was because she was gorgeous, or because his hindbrain thought he was about to be killed and eaten.

She arched an eyebrow at him, as if she, too, were trying to decide, and took a long sip from Maria's mocha.

Well. That explained a lot, actually.

Sam flopped down next to Steve with a grateful sigh. Steve cracked an eyelid and lolled his head toward Sam, nudged him with a shoulder.

"Hey, you."

Sam might eventually get tired of seeing Steve look at him with that fondness in his eyes, but today was not that day. His answering smile was pure reflex.

"You look beat. I guess a full day of truth, justice and the American College way really takes it out of you, huh?"

Steve rolled his eyes, but also offered up a half-strength copy of Captain America's matinee idol grin. "Your day go okay?"

"Oh, not so bad. Got to field-test some new tricks, did a bunch of tumbling. No one got hurt, that's always a plus. And," he added, turning slightly on the couch, "I got a star-spangled man waiting for me at the end."

Sam leaned down, Steve tilted his face up, and _now_ the day was perfect. The kiss was chaste and sweet, a weary "hello," but Sam found himself reluctant to pull away. Steve's breath came sighing across Sam's lips —

A wadded-up napkin hit Sam on the ear. Maria, somehow looking both smug and chipper.

"Why are you two so droopy? It's not like you actually played in the game, or anything."

Well, no. Playing in the game sounded kinda restful. _She_ hadn't spent all day jumping up and down at a football game, of course. She'd done her color guard bit, then changed out of her dress blues and gone home. Probably she'd painted her nails, or cleaned her guns, or something.

Sam flipped her off so Steve didn't have to.

She smiled, a slowly-unfurling Cheshire Cat smile. "You've got glitter in your hair."

Steve looked up at him, startled. Sam was sure he _did_ have glitter in his hair; that stuff was the cheerleader equivalent of cooties. Which meant, of course, that Steve now had a little red and blue sparkle in his own blond spikes. Sam stifled a grin. Tired, sweaty, glittery postgame Steve was one of his favorite Steves.

"Don't listen to the bad lady, Steve. Eat your scone."

Steve looked down as if he'd forgotten it was there. Mechanically, he took a bite.

From across their little _salon_ , Peggy and Natasha watched with sympathy. They, at least, knew what it was like to be "on" all day in the energy-sapping cold of a winter football game. Peggy knew because she'd been doing it too, wrangling Captain America all day. And though she hadn't been at this football game, Natasha knew because she'd been on the dance team her freshman year. 

That last part was a closely guarded secret, but Sam had seen the photos.

So, the five of them just sat there, soaking in the warmth and enjoying their lassitude. Well, Maria was doing something on her phone, but at least she was quiet.

Sam let his eyes fall closed. Behind him, a group of students fell through the door, laughing along with the chime of the bells.

———

Someone sat down on their loveseat with a thump. Steve actually bounced a little; there was life in the old seat springs yet, apparently. Sam startled towards upright, to see who had decided to join them on their _two-person couch_ —

Salted Caramel Latte.

No, Sam corrected himself, _Bucky_. Bucky wore head-to-toe black, and his hair was pulled into a messy bun that exposed the shaved sides of his head. He leaned back in his seat, the very picture of assurance, and slowly pulled off his fingerless gloves. All the while, he grinned at Sam, ignoring the other members of the salon, all of whom were wearing expressions ranging from affront to exasperation.

"This is my new favorite coffee shop. It has the _yummiest_..." His smile transformed into something smaller, slyer, curled at its edges. "Lattes." He opened his eyes wide, all innocence.

Sam felt sweat begin to prickle at his palms. This time, he was pretty sure his hindbrain knew why.

Steve sat up.

"Oh, hey, Buck. I'm glad you could make it. Everybody, this is Bucky. We were best friends as kids. Bucky, you know Peggy, this is Maria and Natasha, and I guess you and Sam are already acquainted."

Bucky smirked. 

From the couch, Natasha cleared her throat pointedly. Bucky took a long second to tear his gaze from Sam before turning to acknowledge her. If Natasha had a tail, Sam thought, it would be twitching.

Bucky sighed, then stood to give her a hug that spun her around and lifted her off her feet. As she settled back onto the couch, looking extremely satisfied, Maria voiced the question everyone else was afraid to ask.

"...What was _that_?"

"James and I have History," she said, darkly. It was the kind of statement that didn't invite further questions. 

Beside her, Maria shifted in her seat.

Of course, Bucky ruined the effect by bursting into laughter. He looked delighted, head tossed back and eyes crinkling nearly shut. Sam couldn't help but stare at the lines of his throat.

"We have "History of the American Revolutionary War" on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We wrote a paper together."

" _I_ wrote it. You carried the books and drew stupid captions on pictures of George Washington."

Natasha looked severe, but one side of her mouth pulled up just slightly.

"Like I said, we —"

Bucky was distracted by the sudden appearance of a muffin before his nose. It was wielded by a young woman wearing, as far as Sam could tell, four sweaters and six scarves. She had a mess of windblown brown curls and lush red lips, and a bewildered-looking blonde man on one arm. The blonde guy was burdened, in his turn, by an affection for purple clothing, and several coffee cups.

Bucky took the muffin, which was replaced by a coffee cup, which he also took.

"You're welcome," the girl told him, and sat herself next to Peggy.

Bucky lifted his hand, as if to scratch his head, and then remembered he had a coffee cup in it. For the first time since he'd sat down, he looked unsure.

"Uh, this is my roommate Clint and his girlfriend Darcy —"

"Excuse you, Clint is _my_ boyfriend. I only let you two follow me around because I like having minions."

"— Is it okay if we join you?"

Steve smiled at each of them in turn. "Of course."

Steve moved on the loveseat to give Bucky more room. That meant he moved closer to Sam, which was an excellent opportunity for Sam to put his arm around him. The guy had ridiculously broad shoulders, okay? It was just more comfortable that way.

Across from them, the women and Clint launched into a conversation/argument/debate over the benefits of minions, what exactly constituted a minion, whether or not Clint qualified, where Darcy found him and if she knew where to get more. There was animated waving of arms, and Clint spilled his coffee. Natasha quietly stole one of Darcy's scarves.

Bucky watched them for a moment, looking fond, then turned to face Sam and Steve. "Good game today, huh?"

Steve laughed. "Pretty sure we lost, Buck. By a lot."

"Well, the cheerleaders were first rate. And I've never seen finer mascotting."

"That's not a word. You made that up."

"Is, too. You're a mascot. I just verbed it. You mascotted."

"Hey, Steve, if the suit fits..." Sam interjected.

"And does it ever." Bucky waved his metal hand up and down in Steve's direction. 

"When did all that _happen_ , anyway? You used to be tiny! Did you know," he said, leaning forward to address Sam, "I used to spend all my time pulling that little punk out of fights? Couldn't keep his smart mouth shut, always getting his ass kicked."

Sam looked appropriately shocked. It wasn't hard. "Say what?"

Bucky shook his head mournfully. "Little Steve Rogers was _such_ a bad influence."

Sam worked to suppress a chuckle at the chagrin on Steve's face. His lack of denial spoke volumes.

Bucky was looking down, fingers mindlessly tracing the rim of his coffee cup. Sam could hear a soft complaint from the cup, the whine of metal against ceramic. When Bucky raised his eyes again, there was no humor left in them.

"I worried about you when I left, Steve. You never knew how to quit. I was scared that without me there you'd get into one last fight you couldn't finish. I just didn't — And then I lost so —" 

Bucky's mouth twitched, tightened. He raised his flesh hand to rub at his face.

"I figured I'd never see you again."

Steve made a sound in the back of his throat, a helpless, involuntary whimper. 

Sam suddenly felt as if he were intruding. They were, all three of them, pressed thigh to thigh on this too-small loveseat, and he had an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders and a hand on his neck, and maybe this was not the place for him. He thought about quietly withdrawing, but then Steve's shoulders hunched, just a little, under his arm. Sam was reminded that Steve was small, once, and alone, and that all he had for family was gathered here around him.

Sam squeezed his fingers gently on the back of Steve's neck. He would lend what strength he could.

Maybe it helped. Steve took a deep breath, visibly straightened.

"I worried about you, too, Buck. I missed you, a lot. Got beat up a lot, too." He chuckled. "But I, uh, finally hit my growth spurt at sixteen. Then, a year later, when my Ma died, I discovered that lifting weights was pretty good stress relief. I just... kinda got into the habit."

Bucky's head snapped up, blue eyes heartbroken.

"Your _Ma_? Oh, Stevie."

He reached out to give comfort, cupped his hand around the back of Steve's neck in a move that had to be pure muscle memory.

Except Sam's hand was already there. Bucky's fingers were slightly spread, and they tangled with Sam's a little, pressing into the back of Steve's neck in a strange parody of an embrace. Sam felt a jolt of frisson at the contact, the beginnings of giddy disequilibrium —

He watched Bucky and Steve stare at each other, hearts in their eyes.

 _Look at me that way_ , Sam thought, but did not say.


	6. i'm not sleeping now

The evening passed in a hazy blur of warmth and the comfort of good company. Steve sat back and let it wash over him, the voices of his friends and the rich smells of his favorite place. Sam and Bucky were pressed close on either side, their bodies solid and strong against his own. Sam kept an arm over Steve's shoulders, and occasionally idle fingers would reach up to tangle with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. On Steve's left, Bucky was animate in conversation. His hand came to rest Steve's knee every minute or so.

Steve drifted.

Darcy told the other women a story about her vacation to New Mexico ("I got to taze a guy! _Twice_!"). Peggy reciprocated by telling the story of Steve's mascot tryouts, when she sucker-punched an upperclassman. Maria and Natasha, as it turned out, had quite a lot to contribute on that topic, and the four of them were soon happily exchanging tales of good old-fashioned violence.

Clint, sitting next to Darcy, didn't seem at all discomfited by his proximity to that kind of discussion. He sat, gazing into middle distance and humming to himself, until he spotted someone he knew on the other side of the coffee shop. "Katie-Kate!" he cried happily, and bounced off to greet his friend. Darcy gave him an affectionate pat on the butt as he left.

Over Steve's head, Sam and Bucky were having an unusually involved conversation on the weather. Sam wanted to know if Bucky had been warm enough during the game, and how his arm handled big variations in temperature. When Bucky answered he spoke with his hands, the left one glinting as he gestured, his whole face alive with expression. Steve sighed with satisfaction, to hear him talk. It was almost as if they'd lost no time at all.

His small movement caught Bucky's attention. He broke off mid-hand wave, sat back a little to take, perhaps for the first time, a really good look —

Steve, slumped down and leaning into Sam, half his back pressed against Sam's chest. Sam's arm, still slung over Steve's shoulder, and Sam's thumb rubbing slow circles behind Steve's ear.

"So." Bucky cleared his throat. "You two, uh..." The metal arm flashed again as he waved it vaguely at the pair of them.

"Yup." Steve could hear the smile in Sam's voice. Sam shifted his thumb slightly, to brush over the shell of Steve's ear. Steve couldn't help but shiver at the touch.

Bucky saw the shiver, or felt it. He must have, given that his leg was still pressed against Steve's from hip to knee. He cocked his head, dark blue eyes considering. "How long?"

"Couple months. Took Steve here a long, _long_ time to get his ass in gear."

Bucky chuckled, but the sound rang a little hollow. "That right? You guys got a meet cute?"

Sam was only too happy to launch into his (wildly inaccurate) retelling of the morning they met out running.

"Hey now, I did _not_ double back around buildings just so I could lap you, Wilson. You're just that slow."

"You did, because you are an obnoxious cheater." Sam turned to Bucky. "Never play cards with this guy."

Steve assumed his most innocent expression, and Bucky failed to contain his snort of amusement.

"Who do you think taught him that?"

Sam fluttered his eyelashes. "Mr. Barnes, I never!"

"Say, did he ever tell you about that time..."

Steve stopped listening as Sam and Bucky traded Steve stories. Lies, all lies. He focused instead on the way their voices resonated through his body, the comforting rumble of their laughter. He focused on the points of contact: on the thumb rubbing slow, sure circles behind his ear, on the long, pale fingers tracing little revolutions just inside his knee.

———

"...So, Clint, how do you know Bucky?" Sam asked.

At some point, Clint had resumed his seat by Darcy, who had promptly put her feet in his lap. He took a swig of Darcy's coffee, then made a face.

Eventually, Darcy noticed Sam looking at Clint with an expectant expression, and nudged Clint with her toes.

“What? Sorry, did you say something?”

Sam repeated his question, enunciating clearly.

"Oh. We're on the rifle team together."

"Rifle team? How about that." Sam was using his 'politely confused' voice.

Bucky rolled his eyes. "You don't have to pretend you knew we had a rifle team. _Nobody_ knows we have a rifle team."

Darcy chimed in. "Which is stupid, because they're really good."

Clint affected a look of surprise. "You think so?"

This time it was Darcy's turn to roll her eyes. 

Bucky laughed. "This idiot here is national champion in rifle _and_ archery three years running. I cannot _wait_ 'til he graduates."

"Yeah, because that's your only hope of winning anything. Too bad about your aim, Barnes."

"Too bad about your _face_ , Barton."

From there it was only a matter of seconds before projectiles started flying. Ignoring the barrage of exceptionally well-aimed napkin wads with the ease of long practice, Darcy leaned forward.

"You know," she said, regarding Steve and Sam in turn, "they have a meet tomorrow. You could come." She slapped a passing to-go lid out of the air. "Bucky has never had anyone there to watch him shoot. Not once."

Steve glanced over at Sam. He looked sober, maybe a little sad. Steve felt Sam's shoulder lift slightly in a shrug, as if to say _why not_?

When Steve turned back to Darcy, he found himself fixed with a surprisingly shrewd stare. He felt weighed and measured by that gaze, as if she could see past all the height and muscle to the scrawny boy he'd once been. Steve gazed back, let her look. He never had been one to back down.

Sam shifted beside him, but Steve continued to let Darcy hold his eyes. With an amused huff, she blinked at last, then held out her hand. "Give me your phone."

"What?" Steve asked, but he was already reaching into his pocket.

"I'll grab your number, text you the details. And Steve, Sam —" she looked up from the screen to make sure her point got across. "You better not fuck this up."

Steve wasn't totally clear on what she meant. Beside him, though, Sam straightened his spine, nodded once.

"Yes, ma'am."

———

Much later, curled with Sam under the covers, Steve laid in the dark and made himself _think_. It had been an eventful few days, and he'd let himself just be carried along, but he couldn't shake the feeling he stood on the verge of something big. So —

 _Look_ , the proverb said, _**then** leap_.

 _Look_... The group parting ways on the sidewalk when the coffee shop finally closed. Bucky's goodbye hug to Steve was bracing, all bluff and muscle and a clap to the shoulder. The hug he'd given Sam had lingered, though. Sam had said something against his ear, and Bucky had ducked his head, hair swinging forward to hide his face. The speaking glance Darcy had shot Steve as they turned to go, tucking her free hand into Bucky's arm. The way Bucky had looked over his shoulder as they walked away, shining eyes unreadable in the dark.

 _Look, then_...

Steve rolled over to face Sam, sought Sam's fingers out to twine with his own.

"You know," he began, "you and Bucky, if you wanna... I won't stand in your way."

Sam lay very still. Somewhere outside, a car whooshed past, headlights sweeping through the window. The glow lit up Sam's face, all angles, and Steve's throat ached at the sight. 

Finally, Sam sighed. "What are you saying, Steve?"

It was safer to keep his eyes on the ceiling, Steve found. "I see how he looks at you. I —" He broke off, throat closing around the words.

Sam rolled his head toward Steve's. "How he _looks at me_?"

Steve blinked, hard. "Like he's hungry, and he can't wait to get a taste. Like he wants to unwrap you."

The fingers tangled with his squeezed gently. 

"Yes. Maybe. But have you seen how he looks at _you_?"

Steve opened his mouth, closed it. Bucky was his _friend_ , he didn't —

"He looks at you..." Sam's eyes, just a gleam in the shadows, shuttered once and then again. "He looks at you like you're the sunrise after a long, dark night." There was a soft _shush_ of blankets as he rolled to face Steve properly. "If anyone wasn't going to stand in the way — Well, _you_ might be a noble, self-sacrificing idiot, but I'm not. I'm not just going to give you up."

Steve drew breath to protest, argue, something. A dozen different replies formed and broke up on his tongue. The one that came out was only half coherent, more emotion than anything else.

"Sam, I would _never_ — No, you don't — Of course I..."

Sam got the gist, though. 

"Good," he said, rolling over again to press his back firmly to Steve's chest. He pulled Steve's hand, still folded into his own, over his waist and tucked them both snug against his heart. "We'll just have to share."

Steve lay in the dark for a long time, listening to Sam breathe and feeling like falling.


	7. let's make a team

Sam wasn't sure what he'd been expecting of a rifle competition, but it wasn't this.

For one thing, it was indoors. Darcy's text had directed them to an unassuming building behind the main gym complex. The structure did not scream "firing range." It said "office building," maybe, or muttered something about maintenance storage space under its breath. It wasn't even very big.

Inside, they were directed to a wide, shallow room divided roughly into longitudinal thirds. The first section held benches on risers — for spectators, evidently, as Darcy caught Sam's eye and waved them over. The center section was busy, full of complicated-looking gear and the people busy fiddling with it. Sam spotted Bucky and Clint among them, but they seemed very absorbed in whatever they were doing, and did not look up. The last section, furthest from the door, was completely empty. It was simply a blank white space, about thirty feet deep, with tiny paper targets affixed to the far wall. Really. _Tiny_ targets.

Darcy patted a space on her bench, looking far too functional for so ridiculously early in the morning. _Why_ did this meet need to start at 8AM, Sam wanted to know. Surely everyone would shoot better on a full night's sleep and a nice Sunday brunch. Then he spotted the enormous coffee cup tucked protectively between Darcy's feet, and that at least made a little more sense. Sam glanced sadly at his own regular-sized cinnamon latte. Rookie mistake.

Darcy caught him looking. "That's my second cup. This early on a Sunday? It can only be love. Come, sit sit, let me explain you a thing."

Sam did so, and Steve joined them, looking utterly bewildered. Sam couldn't blame him.

The shooters were wearing strange, stiff suits covered in straps and buckles. Several wore odd headbands with flaps or lenses hanging over their eyes. There were, Sam noticed, men and women suited up identically, checking their equipment over side by side. That equipment? Well, the guns didn't even look like guns. They were blocky, elongated, space-age. Sam half-expected to turn around and see aliens on the opposing team.

Steve turned to Sam, his entire face spelling out _WTF_?

"Right there with you, buddy." _Definitely_ not enough coffee.

Darcy laughed. "Yeah, I know. Uh, short-short version? The guns are weird, the suits are apparently for stability, and the team's co-ed. Shooting's, like, 99% mental, so our job is to sit here quietly and then look really impressed when they're done. Words With Friends?"

She pulled out her phone, and together the three of them played a few rounds of dirty-word Scrabble. Because, it turned out, Darcy could make _anything_ into an innuendo. Steve blushed really easy. Darcy was delighted.

So, the other thing about rifle meets? They were kinda boring. The teams finally got down to shooting, which was not as loud as Sam had expected, and mostly consisted of a row of people standing very still while holding rifles. There was the occasional retort and flinch of recoil, and the big screen at the end of the room would change, and some people would make impressed or disappointed murmurs, and that was it.

Sam and Steve and Darcy moved from Words With Friends to Draw Something to the hand-slapping game, which is about when one of the coaches sent them the big ol' stinkeye. Then there was Eye Spy, and Hangman, and a very brief round of Never Have I Ever, coffee edition. That one didn't last long, because Darcy ran out of coffee ("What? I lead an adventurous life!") really fast.

All the while, from the corner of his eye, Sam watched Bucky. He was all business here, expression solemn and hair pulled neatly back from his face. His movements were purposeful, economical, and when he stood up to the line to shoot he went completely still, as if frozen. Bucky was frighteningly accurate, Sam noted, glancing at the scoring screen. Sam also noted that Bucky never once looked up at the spectators' stands.

Clint, on the other hand, seemed like he was having a really good time. He looked loose, relaxed, laughing with his teammates and tossing Darcy a wave now and then. He didn't even look that serious when he shot, a tiny smile curling at his mouth as he gazed down the iron sights. Clint was even _more_ frighteningly accurate — but not by much.

Suddenly, it was all over. The last few shooters lowered their rifles and stepped back from the line. Darcy leaped up with a whoop, startling Steve (they had been mid-thumb wrestle, and they had both been cheating outrageously) and threw herself at Clint. He caught her, laughing, and spun her around. Sam took a look at the scoreboard. There was a #1 next to Clint's name.

The #2 slot read "Barnes," unsurprisingly. Bucky watched Darcy kissing Clint, face inscrutable, and then turned away to bend over his gear. Sam couldn't guess what Bucky was thinking, but there was unmistakable tension in the line of his shoulders.

Beside him, Steve was abruptly tense, too. Sam glanced over, took in the way his eyes were pinching, and reached for his hand. "Come on, soldier. Let's get our boy."

Together they made their way down to where Bucky worked, at the end of the line. His jacket was hanging open, now, and he'd pulled his hair loose from its ponytail. Just as they reached him, Bucky snapped his case closed and turned to leave. He literally ran right into them.

Bucky's eyes opened wide and him mouth fell open. He wobbled a little, and Steve reached out to steady him while Sam made a grab for his rifle case. Steve smiled, big and happy.

"That was really great shooting, Buck. Congratulations!"

Sam chimed in. "Very impressive, Bucky. Well done."

Bucky opened and closed his mouth a few times. "You guys — You guys were watching? You came to watch _me_?"

Steve just kept smiling. "Well, yeah."

"Darcy gave us the details," Sam elaborated. "And, uh, explained it to us. We had no idea."

That got a smile from Bucky, at least. "Yeah. It is kinda sci-fi. You guys weren't bored?"

"Darcy has a lot of games on her phone," said Steve, abashed.

Bucky just looked at them, face lit up with a painful kind of hope. Around them, the room began to empty. Steve cleared his throat. Bucky reached up to rub at the shaved part of his scalp with his metal hand.

"Well, uh..." both Steve and Bucky said at once. Sam elbowed Steve in the ribs, hard.

"You hungry? We were going to grab some lunch. You wanna come?"

Clint bounced over, towing Darcy by one hand. "Lunch sounds _great_. I am starved. Let's go get —"

Darcy used her free hand to slap Clint upside the head.

"Ow! What?" She shot him a significant look. " _Oh_. Oh, yeah, I just remembered I promised Darcy pizza. Sorry, guys. Great shooting, Buck!"

The last part was shouted over his shoulder as Darcy towed him out the door. From the hallway, Sam could hear one last "aw, Darcy" before the door swung closed and they were alone.

Sam smiled at Bucky. "So, lunch?" He took the rifle case from Bucky's unresisting fingers, and slung his other arm around Bucky's waist. On Bucky's left, Steve wrapped his own arm around Bucky's shoulders.

Bucky took a deep breath, stood up a little straighter. "Lunch would be good."


	8. turn the lights out

By the time Bucky had talked to his coaches, changed, and stowed his gear, lunch was very late indeed. They opted for subs, Sam's treat, because they were tasty and close by. (Sam _learned something_ about himself, watching Bucky lick sauce off his metal fingers.) They kept the conversation light, talked about their majors and their extracurriculars and movies they'd seen lately. Slowly, gradually, the line of Bucky's shoulders began to relax, and his smiles got a little less tentative. He stole Steve's pickle spear, and when Sam laughed out loud at the sheer affront on Steve's face, Bucky offered Sam half.

Steve threw his balled-up foil wrapper at them. It would have hit Bucky square on the forehead, but that metal hand was suddenly there, plucking the projectile out of the air and crushing it flat.

Bucky grinned at him, mouth wide and teeth flashing. "Stick to mascotting, Rogers."

Steve scowled. "That's still not a word."

"Hey, you guys." Sam had been perusing the notice board by the door, and something had caught his eye. "They're showing _Ice Age_ this afternoon at the Student Union. You wanna go?"

Bucky perked up. "I love that movie."

"It's a cartoon, right? I don't think I've seen that one," Steve said.

Both Sam and Bucky rounded on him, aghast.

" _What_ have you been doing with your time, Steve?" Sam demanded. "I am ashamed."

From the other side of the booth, Bucky nodded vigorously.

Sam stood, fists on the table. "We are fixing this right now. Barnes, you in?"

Bucky hesitated, but just for a moment. "Yes. Yes, I am."

———

Sam got the tickets. He made Steve get them all popcorn, as punishment for being so remiss.

———

When the movie let out, the sky had darkened, the air cold, clear and crisp. Sam slung an arm each over Steve's and Bucky's shoulders as they made their way outside. "So, Steve? Were we right or were we right?"

Steve smiled down at him. "You were right. Thanks for setting me straight."

"Always."

Sam glanced to his other side. Bucky hadn't said anything since the movie ended, but his mouth was curled in a lingering smile, and he leaned ever so slightly into Sam's touch.

"You got anywhere to be right now, Buck? Sam?" Steve's tone was soft, but serious, and Sam felt an arm slip around his waist.

Bucky shook his head. "No, not really."

"Good. There's something I want to show you." And Steve set off in the direction of Tall, Dark, and Roasted, trusting that their linked arms would bring the others along.

Fortunately, their trip was only a few blocks. Steve had very long legs.

When they got to the coffee shop, though, Steve led them straight through. He gave a wave to Maria, and took the others into the back, then down the side corridor, past the bean room and all the way to a dead-end door that Sam had always assumed was locked. It opened onto a narrow set of stairs, and Steve immediately began to climb.

Watching Steve's disappearing back, Sam and Bucky exchanged mutual shrugs of resignation. But Sam was curious, and Bucky was apparently long-conditioned to follow Steve's harebrained schemes, so they, too, began to climb. 

They emerged into the bright moonlight of a cold winter night. The mysterious door was evidently roof access, and now the whole town was spread out before them. Not that their building was especially tall; it was more that the town was small, and sleepy. This time on a Sunday night, downtown was mostly dark. Sam tilted his face to the sky, was surprised to see so many stars.

Quietly, Steve said, "Nobody ever comes up here, but I like it. It's peaceful."

Bucky didn't answer. He was still looking up, his shoulders loose and his hands relaxed and open by his sides. He parted his lips, exhaled, and the breath curled over him ghostly and white before drifting away. 

Sam couldn't take his eyes off him.

After a moment, Steve shook himself and turned for the stairs. "I'll be right back."

When Steve was gone, Sam sat down, settled back on his hands so he could comfortably look up. "Okay, Buck?"

Bucky startled a little, then turned to face Sam with a shy half-smile. It was light years from the heated smirk he'd worn the day they met, Sam thought. _This_ smile was one he wanted to see again and again.

Sam patted the surface beside him. "Here, pull up some roof."

Bucky's smile widened, and he did so. In the quiet, Sam could hear Bucky's arm whirring as he moved, even through his thick blue coat.

"You gonna freeze out here?"

"Maybe." Bucky flexed his hand, and they both listened to the plates slide and click. "But not for a little while."

Sam bumped him with a shoulder. “I’m sure we can keep you warm.”

Right on cue, Steve reappeared. He was bearing a tray holding three cups, and he had a wooly plaid blanket thrown over one shoulder. "Hot chocolate," he announced, and smiled at Bucky. "Extra whip." He passed out the cups, then seated himself on Bucky's other side. He draped the blanket across all their shoulders.

Sam peered at it suspiciously in the dim light. "Where did you find a blanket?"

Steve smiled across at him beatifically. "Lost and found."

Sam gave a full-body flinch, and Steve laughed. "Kidding! Maria loaned it to me. She sometimes crashes in the back office if she has an early class."

Sam grumbled and settled back under the blanket, scooting closer to Bucky for maximum warmth. On the other side, he could hear Steve doing the same thing.

Bucky sat up straight. "Um. Is this a _date_?"

Sam stilled. Steve stopped his fidgeting and turned, to look Bucky right in the eye. "If you'd like it to be."

Bucky hesitated, uncertainty plain on his face.

Sam cleared his throat. "We like you, Bucky. Both of us. We'd like to see more of you. If you're interested."

"How would that —" Bucky swallowed. "How would that work?"

"Lots of talking." Sam shrugged. "Honesty, communication, all that jazz. Maybe some making out, ideally a little hot three-way action —"

"But let's not get ahead of ourselves." It was hard to tell in the dark, but Sam would bet good money Steve was blushing.

Bucky sat very still between the two of them, arms wrapped around his knees. There was a long moment in which Sam and Steve hardly dared breathe, and then Bucky's mouth began to curl. The smile that grew was slow in unfurling, but _bright_ , so bright that it put all the stars above to shame.

"I am," he said. "Interested."

And he was _right there_ , still smiling, so Sam thought _what the hell_ and leaned in and kissed him.

It was just a first kiss, soft and sweet with promise and chocolate; there would be more. Halfway through, Sam felt Bucky gasp against his mouth, and saw that Steve had started in on the other side, tracing his lips along the angle of Bucky's jaw. Bucky broke away and turned to meet him with a sigh that sounded like Steve's name. 

It was, Sam thought, a beautiful sight — but he was done looking. He slid an arm around both his boys, and leaned back in.

**Author's Note:**

> ...so, there's a [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/surgicalstainless/tall-dark-and-roasted), too.
> 
> Natasha Romanoff, morning shift manager at Tall, Dark, and Roasted, picks the music. You will listen to her music and you will like it (because she's rigged the stereo that no one else can change the channel). This may not be the soundtrack Sam, Steve, and Bucky wanted or needed, but it is the one they got.
> 
> (It's crack. It's totally not the kind of music that _should_ go with this fic, you guys. The fic title and all the chapter titles come from song lyrics, mostly because I didn't want just numbers. And then things kinda got out of hand. So I made this playlist, one song per chapter plus the title track. I listened to it a lot while I wrote.)
> 
>  
> 
> You are also heartily encouraged to come visit me on [tumblr](http://z-delenda-est.tumblr.com). I have no idea what I'm doing, but more friends are always better.


End file.
